by Robert Hough
Father Alvarez did just what he’d promised, and left. The mayor, beginning to sulk a little himself, ordered the first of several cervezas. Over the following two hours he talked to everyone who came by about the radio tower. Public opinion, he found, was pretty much split in half. Those who benefited from the tower wanted it to stay, while those who didn’t benefit from the tower wanted it gone. And what about you? the mayor asked himself once his third cerveza had started to make him feel reflective. Why are you the only one who can see both sides of the story? Why is it you’re the one who always has to sit on the proverbial fence?
He finally stood and headed for the swinging doors. There was no way around it: he was going to have to petition Corazón’s most important businessperson. He took a deep breath, shook some feeling into the less effective of his two feet, and clomped down a side street filled with dogs and gold-toothed crooks and saggy-breasted putas and toothless old women selling bunches of dried epazote. He emerged on Avenida Cinco de Mayo, turned left, and walked past the queue that now extended at all hours of the day and night from the front doors of Madam Félix’s.
The mayor shouldered his way along. As he approached the front door, the men at the front of the line began to worry that he was trying to butt in.
— I’m the mayor! Miguel protested. — And I must speak with Madam Félix!
— No speeky the Spanish, said a large gringo at the front of the line. — Go back to México …
— I am in México, said the mayor in English. — And you’re in my country, pendejo.
The gringo’s face turned the light red of a dwindling sun. Having remembered that he really was in México, he resented having been made a fool of by the limping foreigner standing before him. He shoved the mayor hard on both shoulders. Miguel landed in earth muddied by a thousand pairs of snake-leather boots and lay looking up at the white-blue sky, wondering what in the name of Jesús he had done to deserve this. Just then a pair of Marias emerged from the house to take a breath of fresh air. Upon seeing the downed mayor, they screamed and ran towards him.
— Get away! they both yelled. — Get away from heem! Anyone who touching heem no getting in the casa!
The men backed away, fearful they’d be sent to the back of the line. The two Marias kneeled and looked into the mayor’s beleaguered eyes. He, in turn, looked up into theirs. Though it was difficult to keep all of the Marias straight — it seemed that new ones were arriving every day — he was relatively sure that his rescuers were Maria del Mar and Maria de la Mañana. Both, he thought, were the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen.
— I’m fine, he assured them.
They each took an arm and lifted him to his feet. The client who had knocked down Miguel now bent over and picked up the mayor’s hat. Sheepishly, he handed it to Maria del Mar, and then backed submissively into line.
— Why are you here? asked Maria del Mar. — Are you feeling lonely? I could attend to you myself, if you’d like …
— Ay no, said Miguel. — From a Maria as lovely as you, I couldn’t afford a handshake. But thank you anyway. I need to speak with Madam. Would you happen to know if she is free?
— For you I’m sure she will take a break from whatever she is doing. Come in. Por favor, come in, it’s this way.
He followed the two Marias around the side of the house and entered via a door at the back of the brothel. The mayor stepped into a velvety, red-tinged gloom. He could smell strong tobacco and lanolin. As he moved along a hallway lit by red lamplight he felt a strong transgressive thrill — despite having known Madam Félix for years, he had never actually set foot in her House of Gentlemanly Pleasures. He heard moans, and the percussive sound made by thin brown hands slapping flesh. From beyond a beaded curtain he heard a gringo client call out Maria, I love you, my wife doesn’t understand me …
Maria del Mar and Maria de la Mañana stopped before an imposing mesquite door. Maria del Mar rapped lightly with one knuckle. She waited a few seconds and then rapped again.
— Qué? was the response.
— Madam! Maria del Mar called through the door. — I have the mayor here.
There was a moment of silence. — Miguel? Miguel Orozco is here?
— Sí, Madam.
— Ay, qué bueno! What a surprise! Just give me a second. Maria del Mar smiled at the mayor and rocked on her feet. A half-minute passed before the door opened. Madam was wearing a long jade-coloured silk gown. Her feet were in lamé slippers and her hair was gathered atop her head and held in place by a tiara that, the mayor suspected, sparkled with actual diamonds. As always, she looked resplendent.
— Miguel! she said, cupping his right hand in both of hers. — What a pleasure!
She motioned him towards the heavy wooden chair opposite her desk. As the mayor took a seat she regained her position behind her massive oak desk. Madam then lit a cigarillo and offered one to her guest, who gladly accepted. The smoke tasted of almonds, and it was about as harsh as chiffon cake.
— It’s delicious, he said. — Gracias.
— So. To what do I owe this pleasure?
He paused, searching for the right words. — It’s the town, Madam. Obviously you have noticed. The plaza crowded with the homeless, the skies lighting up green all night long, petty crime on the rise. And it is true that you can’t get away from the signal. People are complaining. They are saying it’s unnatural, music coming from their cutlery drawers. They want me to … they want me to talk to the doctor. They want me to ask him to lower the wattage. Some want me to kick him out altogether.
— You could do this?
— I suppose I could try.
Madam smoked and looked thoughtful.
— Let me explain something, Miguel. Since the radio station started advertising Dr. Brinkley’s procedure, my business has gone up three hundred percent. Yes, you heard me right. Already I’ve had to hire five new Marias, and I’ve got another two on the way. This means that there are seven more families living in Oaxaca and Chiapas and Michoacán who now have enough to eat, who can now afford school fees for their children, and who now wear actual clothes instead of old cut-open malva sacks. You’re originally from the south, so you understand that this is no small thing. Just the other day, Maria del Alma told me that with all the money Maria has sent her, her mother has opened a beauty salon. Before, the woman spent all day worrying about survival. Now she spends her days cutting hair and filing nails. Plus, she now gives most of the money Maria sends her to her brother in San Luis Potosí. Now his family is eating and wearing real clothes, and his children can afford such luxuries as pencils and notepaper. What the radio station has done is provide a step-up for families all over México, and that step-up in turn provides for other families. The gringos call this economics. You must think of this before you talk to Dr. Brinkley.
— But what about the disorder that has come with it, Madam? Our town is no longer safe. There are reports of ornaments being stolen off graves in our cemetery. Last night thieves broke into my office …
— It’s temporary. A necessary evil. You can use our business taxes to start a police force.
— But we don’t collect business taxes. We don’t collect taxes of any kind. It never seemed worth the trouble.
— So start, countered Madam. — I can afford it, as can the cantina owner. And that hairy Zacatecan who runs the town store is practically a millionaire. With all the money in Corazón, other businesses will start up soon enough, and then you can collect taxes from them as well. I’ve heard that a restaurant is going to open next month near the Pozo de Confesiones, and I’ve heard talk of a muchacho who wants to set up a barber shop right on the plaza.
— I’ve heard the talk as well.
— Miguel. It’s called free enterprise. Pretty soon you’ll be able to pay yourself a good salary, and nobody deserves it more than you. Let me put it this way. Yes, I am prospering, thanks to Brinkley’s station. And as I expand, I’ll need to buy furniture, and mattresses, and r
ed light bulbs, and brandy, and pretty soon I won’t have to travel to los Estados Unidos to do it. I’ll be able to buy them all here, in Corazón de la Fuente. That, Miguel, is progress.
The mayor left feeling buoyed, if only because Madam had convinced him that the best thing he could do was adopt a wait-and-see attitude. It was a sensation that abated the moment he stepped into the street. At five in the afternoon it was so loud with barking curs and arguing putas and lolling drunkards and caterwauling babies that he could barely hear himself think. Brinkley’s tower, once such a pristine architectural marvel, now loomed over several dozen homeless families living beneath it, its girders stained with charcoal smoke, its three mighty legs spanned by dirty laundry. As he passed the lineup leading to Madam Félix’s door, one of her prospective clients called out Hey, look at the crippled wetback, a comment that neatly exemplified the vulgarity that had settled on his poor, humble town on the border.
{ 23 }
SADLY, THE SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY OF FRANCISCO Ramirez coincided with the arrival of a rumour. It seemed that a certain young muchacha, known equally for her studiousness and her beauty, was spending an unusual amount of time with a certain wealthy doctor, who of course would also remain nameless, and that this particular muchacha had been spotted coming back across the bridge in the small hours, by chauffeured limousine no less, and this late return had caused friction between this nameless young woman and her anxious, lye-scented mother, their shouting having caused the stray dogs in the neighbouring alleyway to start howling like pin-stuck banshees.
Though no one was cruel enough to pass these rumours directly to Francisco, the town was small, and some of the older gossips were hard of hearing and had a tendency to raise their voices when speaking. Even if Francisco hadn’t heard the news reverberating off pale blue adobe walls, it wouldn’t have mattered. He had known far in advance of the inevitable suppositions, had known just from the guilt-marred gleam in Violeta’s eyes. To make matters worse, it was clear to him that the mayor was going to do nothing, not one thing, about Brinkley’s presence in their once peaceful town. This frustrated him so badly that he now spent much of his sleepless nights trying to concoct a way to ruin Brinkley and not spend the rest of his life behind gringo bars.
And so, on his birthday, Francisco made one request and one request only. He was in no mood for celebration. If the family could keep the festivities to a bare minimum he would appreciate it.
He did not get this wish. Francisco’s nearsighted grandmother believed that he needed a diversion, so she took it upon herself to create his favourite meal: pimientos stuffed with ground beef and raisins, served with a salsa blanca, a salsa roja, and a salsa verde (the dish, originally created to commemorate México’s ejection of the Spanish, recreated the colours of the country’s flag). To accompany this she made pot beans dressed with epazote and cheese, and a rice whose grains had been left to roast over a low pinewood flame before the addition of stock. To stimulate the appetite she made tacos al pastor, and for dessert she made a chocolate birthday cake seasoned with chiles and a dusting of ground sugared pumpkin seeds. As with most traditional Mexican meals, it was nothing if not labour-intensive. She was up with the dawn, toasting the almonds for the salsa blanca, and was hard at work until dusk, at which point she began complaining that her bunions were sore.
With his heart so heavy that it compressed his stomach, Francisco could barely eat. Every mouthful tasted like paste, and no matter how much he chewed each bite, the food aggravated the lump he now carried at all times in the centre of his throat. Though the antics of his brothers saved the fiesta from being a completely solemn affair, the birthday boy nonetheless grew despairing during the presentation of the chocolate cake, which was accompanied by the requisite singing of “Feliz Cumpleaños.” On that day the lyrics of the song seemed cruelly ironic, it being obvious to Francisco that, without Violeta’s love, he could very well go through the whole of his life without ever again knowing what happiness felt like.
When the meal was over and the dishes cleared away, Francisco noted that his father was peering at him with a mixture of pride, empathy, and, if Francisco wasn’t mistaken, impishness.
— Ready, mijo?
— Ready?
— Sí. Get your jacket.
Father and son walked through the streets of Corazón de la Fuente. Each had a tall, sturdy frame and a deliberate stride, and it was obvious to anyone who didn’t know them that the two men shared the same lineage. All around were families cooking meals over low, smouldering fires, and as they walked they were approached by a dozen beggars, all trying to sell them Chiclets. Francisco the elder bought a few packets and then waved the rest away.
— Francisco, he said to his boy. — I would like to talk to you about Violeta.
Francisco sighed.
— Mijo. I know that you love her because, like you, she has a certain solitary, pensive nature. Of course, there is also her extreme beauty.
— Sí, papi.
— Yet she also has an unattainable quality. Did it ever occur to you that maybe it is precisely this quality that you find irresistible?
— I don’t understand.
— Francisco. Your mother died of typhus when you were ten years of age.
The two men walked in silence for a few strides. When Francisco Senior again spoke, his voice was rendered shaky by sadness. — I wonder if your concept of love for a woman is a love that cannot be returned. Could it be that you yearn for the type of love that you have for Violeta because it feels like something you know too well already? Because it feels like something you’ve known since you were a boy?
The two men stopped and faced one another.
— Mijo, added the older Francisco. — We Ramirezes are faithful men. Loyalty runs through our veins as surely as blood. Once our affections are stirred, nothing will dim them. That is the reason I have yet to so much as glance at another woman. It is both our curse and our noblest feature.
Francisco now saw that his father had led him to the door of Carlos Hernandez’s cantina. Confused, he returned his gaze to his father’s slender face.
— Hijo. Today you have reached seventeen years of age. It is my greatest wish that you have a drink of tequila with me.
Francisco was hit by a wave of emotion so fierce that, had it not been for the rules governing the behaviour of men, he might have permitted his eyes to mist. Instead he straightened, appreciating what his father had managed to do: momentarily replace his heartache with a moment far more significant.
— Of course, he managed.
Things were slow in the cantina. Now that the locals had run out of tower money, most of Carlos Hernandez’s business was conducted via the back door, through which he sold measures of pulque to anyone with a few centavos and a valorous liver. Hearing the saloon door swing open, the cantina owner, who was reading a newspaper at the bar, looked up.
— Well, look at that, he said. — A pair of Franciscos! To what do I owe the pleasure?
— Hola, Carlos, said Francisco Senior. — I believe you know my son.
— Of course. Hola, Francisco.
— What you may not know is that it is his seventeenth birthday today, and I would like to commemorate the occasion with the finest tequila that you have in the house.
— Be careful when you say that! I have a few very good bottles that I keep on hand for when the hacendero comes in. And as you know, he has expensive tastes.
— I understand that, primo. I have been preparing for this day for quite a while.
— Well, in that case, welcome.
The cantina owner reached below the bar and fumbled around for a few seconds. When he straightened, he held a bottle half-filled with amber liquid.
— One hundred percent agave, and the best that the grand state of Jalisco has to offer. I tell you what, Francisco. I’m in the mood for a drink myself. If you will tolerate my company, we’ll call it my gift to the young man.
During the ensuing ten-m
inute discussion, in which Carlos Hernandez and Francisco Ramirez Senior argued over who would pay for the tequila, Francisco looked around, noting the ways in which the room matched the one he’d conjured a thousand times in his imagination: the rings on the tabletops, the bullet holes in the ceiling, the dull, settled-in scent of smoke. There were still charred marks on the wide-planked floor, a souvenir from the night in which a unit of Villistas had set the place on fire. As with all Mexican cantinas that served only men, the pissoir was in the main room, attached to the west-facing wall. Even Carlos’s wife, the previously cheerless Margarita Hernandez, was said to enter the family business only during times of extreme necessity.
A compromise was eventually reached. Francisco the elder would pay for the first round, the cantina owner for the second. Carlos poured the tequila into three large snifters. When Francisco went to take a sip, his father tapped his arm and said: — Not so fast. This isn’t the rotgut you and your amigos swill up at the mission. First, hold the glass up to the light and admire the colour.
Francisco lifted his glass so that it was directly between his nose and one of the kerosene lamps.
— Look closely, interjected Carlos. — Whereas you probably first thought it was simply the colour of honey, you will notice a tone of buttercup yellow around the edges, suggesting that this tequila has been aged patiently, under the most tender conditions, rendering it a colour closer to spun gold.
— Sí, said Francisco. — You’re right.
— Now, said Francisco’s father. — Smell it.
Expecting his nose to be singed by alcohol fumes, Francisco gave the beverage a cautious sniff.
— Ay no, said the cantina owner. — Don’t be shy. It won’t bite. Stick your nose right inside your glass and let its scent do the work.